


black and blue

by ennaih (aquandrian)



Category: Original Work
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Lingerie Kink, Semi-Public Sex, Smut and Fluff, and lace, another Mendo AU, glamour, in which the Burberry suit features, men in lingerie, this is close to xReader as I get
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-27
Updated: 2018-01-27
Packaged: 2019-03-10 03:10:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13494576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aquandrian/pseuds/ennaih
Summary: Secrets hiding in plain sight. A alternate take on the Burberry suit.





	black and blue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [vell1chor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vell1chor/gifts).



> Title from _Let's Live_ by The Blackeyed Susans.
> 
> Inspired by:
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> and:
> 
>   
>   
> giffed by [memorypalaceofwillgraham](http://memorypalaceofwillgraham.tumblr.com/post/93637457807/gorgeous-nudges-madnizilla)
> 
> It's all vell1chor's fault, don't look at me.

_you can be black // i can be blue_

“Come on,” she calls out, adjusting her boobs in front of the bathroom mirror. “Are you getting ready? Hurry up, we can’t be late!”

“I know,” he yells from the bedroom of their hotel suite. “I just -- can you come here, please?”

The stylist has been and gone. He’s sat through the whole skin care routine, hair done, his gorgeous blue Burberry suit is laid out on the bed. His agent and publicist are waiting in the living room with varying degrees of patience because they all know by now what he’s like.

Fucking hopeless time management skills.

“I don’t know about these fishnets,” he complains as she leaves the bathroom. He’s quite naked, crisp silver hair and creamy flesh and straight male lines. His hands are on his hips, mouth scrunched as he scowls down at the bed. The black stockings are draped next to the suit, the gold and black lingerie gleaming on the bronze quilt.

“No,” she agrees beside him.

He glances at her, pleasantly surprised. “Ooh,” his voice dips. “You smell nice,” he says with slow delicious appreciation, leaning towards her, tongue flicking out.

She slants him an amused smile. “I look fucken amazing, too.”

A long midnight blue gown, smooth on top with tiny swirls of sparkle, lace panels down the sides hinting at flesh, fluting into long swirling black lace that flutters around her bare legs. Her heels are very high and thin, steel tipped. The back of her dress is open and bare, a rope of seed pearls set in steel across her shoulders.

“You certainly fucken do,” he replies, his eyes heating with lust, his fingers tugging gently on the pearls. 

She gasps and pushes at him. “Not now, christ. Get dressed --”

“Yeah, but --” he gestures at the stockings. “They’re gunna fucken show! I can’t have them show! Not tonight!”

“Yeah -- what about the seamed ones? You love those.”

“Yesss,” he says with triumph, darting to the open suitcase.

She adores this part, getting to sit down and settle into the finery of this assumed glamour, and watching him dress from the skin outward. The music is slow and slinky, golden lamplight against the heavy drapes. And she links her hands on her knee, balancing her foot on the tip of one steel point as she watches the show he puts on half for her and half for himself.

His legs are smooth and so pale, that male contour of muscle that moves as he rolls one sheer black stocking on, and rubs his palm slowly up the line of his calf. Her mouth starts to go dry. One, then the other, his skin glimmering through the fine dark sheen, and he puts his feet together, flexes his legs straight out before him with a glinting little smile. He loves this so much, such a tactile deeply sensual creature, and she loves that she gets to share in this. 

And still the nerves strike. “I should, right?” he says suddenly, glancing up at her. “I mean, I probably shouldn’t -- stuff could -- there might --”

“You do what you want,” she says, her voice calm like every other time they’ve had this exchange. 

“But what if --”

“You know that line from Kinky Boots,” she reminds him with affection. “You’re never more than ten feet away from --” she grins at him “-- some terribly sexy genderfuckery.”

It always makes him laugh, the different ways she twists that line, and this time he chuckles quiet under his breath. She sees the tension go out of his shoulders. Naked but for the stockings, he is all cream and freckles, dark pink flesh and silvered hair, a gorgeous confidence in the way he gets to his feet and turns, looking over his shoulder. 

“My seams straight?” he asks, mischief glittering in blue grey.

She grins back, delighted. “Not quite.”

He straightens them with care, his fingers blunt and gentle, tracing the fine black curve down the back of his calf. And she props her chin on her hand, smiling deep as she watches him wriggle into the sheer black panties. Intricate swirls of gold lace on the front, he turns so she can see him adjust his slightly hard cock inside. 

“God, you fill those out well,” she murmurs.

His mouth curves, he sure as fuck knows that, and they both know he loves to hear it.

“Can’t do the bra,” he says sadly. “It’ll ruin the line of the shirt. I can’t have that.”

“Sokay,” she assures him. “Another time.”

So he steps into the sleek patterned blue trousers and eases them up over the stockings and panties, watching himself in the mirror. In her chair, she sees the muscles move under the supple freckled skin of his back, and she skates her fingertips against the skin of her throat, wanting him so much she’s wet inside already. The suit trousers fit snug over his perfect ass, conceal his luscious secrets. In the reflection, his eyes catch hers, hot blue. 

Fine white shirt buttoning up over tiny pink nipples. He fastens the button on the waistband, buckles the narrow blue belt. Cufflinks inserted, and arranging the dark blue knot of his tie. Dark blue socks and dark blue lace up shoes. He looks so much the tall dapper masculine gentleman, such Anglo perfection with his fair skin, bold curving cheekbones, blue eyes and silver hair spiked up. 

No signet ring tonight, he’s temporarily lost it because he’s like that. Two quick sprays of his cologne. He shrugs on the jacket and turns to her as he buttons it across his slim torso. All the trappings of power and privilege settle on him like armour.

“Ready?”

“So ready.” 

He comes towards her, his mouth firm as he adjusts the sharp white edges of his cuffs. She stands, and he grabs her for one hard long kiss, so devouring they’re both breathless when he stops.

“Later,” he promises, his voice low and utterly carnal.

___________

 

The premiere is an organised chaos of flashes and microphones and so much chatter. He moves into suave publicity mode, his accent rounding out into received pronunciation Australian, modified enough for the press people to understand him. He repeats his practised ever so diplomatic answers, saying the same thing fifteen different ways as his publicist guides him down the red carpet.

There’s a stiff breeze moving through the crowds that catches her lace skirt in delicate billows around her sharp heels as she strides away from him. She has her own people to meet and greet, but he prefers her always within his peripheral vision. She doesn’t always do what he wants.

In the foyer, more pictures where he poses with a smile of varying degrees of sincerity, depending on who stands beside him. When his arm slides around her waist, he pulls her firm up against him, his big hand splaying on the delicate lace over her bare hip. 

“Dignity,” she murmurs just before the flash goes off. “Always dignity.”

His body shakes with silent laughter, and he pinches her lightly. 

“Owww,” she says with soft reproach, glancing at his face. “Don’t pinch me, you beast.”

The photographers clamour for him to move to another spot for pictures with the producers and other stars. As his arm slips away, he smirks at her. “What can I do to you? I’m just a shadow …”

“Fucken dork,” she giggles, hurrying off to where she’s summoned by film bloggers she knows.

He has more fun when he whips his own phone out for selfies with the cast. She notices but is too busy with industry gossip to obey his beckoning finger. Eventually he marches over, about to snarl at her, and instead gets caught up in the discussions. She puts both arms around his waist and hugs him, cheek against his tie, as he automatically hugs her back and rants at her friends about villain typecasting. There’s probably someone recording him but he’s going off and she does love it when he drops the smooth public persona to be all rabid and opinionated.

In the cinema, he holds her hand on the armrest between them. There’s an introduction onstage to the appreciative audience of press and industry peeps. The director brings each actor on, and he smiles his sweet professional smile up into the lights when it’s his turn. The Burberry suit fits him so well, that subtle square pattern so flattering, the warm blue and white shades perfectly suited to his colouring. She sees how the material pulls snug over his thigh as he strides across the stage. It reminds her of his delicious secrets, her mouth curving with the knowledge no one else here has. Of his sweet naked flesh contained in sheer black and gold lingerie under the blue.

When he comes back to his seat, she tells him, “You better give that stylist a raise, she’s a bloody genius.”

He laughs quietly, agreeing as the lights dim.

About ten minutes into the film, he squeezes her hand and whispers, “Let’s get out of here.”

He never watches his own work unless he’s absolutely forced to. Or it’s Star Wars.

The foyer is relatively deserted, a few vaguely curious publicists on their phones and tablets. She lets him pull her into the opulent shades of the deserted bar area, but squeaks and resists when he propels them towards the men’s room. “What are you doing -- no! Someone will see you! Have you lost your mind?”

He turns on her, fierce blue eyes and stern mouth. “Everyone’s inside watching the movie, no one’s going to see us, come the fuck **_on_** , I **_need_** you.”

She doesn’t know whether to be amused or insanely aroused. She settles for aroused.

In the cubicle, he drags up her lace skirt on either side, bunching it in his big hands as he mutters, “Fucken knew -- knew -- jesus …”

She laughs against the smooth granite wall, her voice shaking, “Don’t you rip it, I swear to god --”

He shoves his whole clothed body against hers, so hard from chest to cock to thighs, his mouth hot against her ear, “I fucken **_knew_** you were bare cunt naked under this thing.”

Her body spasms with filthy delight at his profanity, and he knows damned well it does. Now he reaches down, slides his palm over the naked curve of her ass and under, making her gasp when he finds her wetness. “Gunna fuck you,” he insists, all guttural and desperate, “I’m gunna fuck you so hard, right here, right fucken now --”

“Promises, pro --” she breaks off into a muffled scream when his cock rams into her. He fucks her merciless, a jagged stormy rhythm, clapping his palm over her mouth, his breath hot and frantic, juddering her against the stone. Someone is totally going to walk in and hear them, know it’s him from the way he moans and swears as he pounds into her. 

There’s a mirror at the back of the cubicle, she whimpers when she realises, when she catches sight of them. His jacket is over the cubicle door, blue trousers pushed down on his sheened black thighs, his bare white ass above the crushed gold and black of the panties, that bare male ass clenching as he fucks her pulsing wet cunt. 

He bites at her shoulder, at the rope of pearls across the top of her back, his fingers digging into her hips. “God, fuck,” he moans, pushing his face against her hair, “I need you to -- I need you to --”

His phone rings so loud and shrill they both recoil, disengaging in a mild panic. “Jesus, **_fuuck_** ,” he says with such abject despair she feels quite sorry for him.

“Soon,” she promises him with a swift dirty kiss. “Moment we get back, we’re going to fuck properly.”

He hugs her for a long intense moment and then lets her go.

___________

 

They make their goodbyes as quick as professional obligation and common courtesy allow. She did think perhaps they could start back up again in the car back to the hotel but no, they’re not alone there. He keeps a tense hand on her knee for the return journey, his answers short and barely polite to questions he’s asked. She gets the impression people think his mood has dipped, that something’s angered him.

She knows better.

They very nearly fuck in the elevator up, all groping hands and hungry mouths. He’s just about to push her legs up, ready to get his cock out, but then the doors slide open, and they regain a bit of sense.

When they’re finally alone, locked in the suite, his energy switches right down. All that desperation narrows and concentrates on her with a breathtaking intensity. “You …” he says with slow ripe intent, walking towards her through the warm bronze and red shades of the living area. 

They’ve got all the time in the world now, all the time to do every depraved beautiful thing they want to each other.

She stays where she is, tall on her fine heels, draped in delicate lace, her naked back shivering a little. Her breath is rapid and excited, her fingers curling against her palms by her sides.

“You,” he says softly and bends his head to kiss the point of her shoulder. She gasps despite herself, trembling at his nearness, at the way he draws the back of his knuckles along the underside of her arms. As she whispers his name, he licks along the edge of her dress where it lays against her collarbone, and his fingers unclasp the rope of pearls.

“Beautiful girl,” he murmurs and peels the dress forward off her shoulders. Soft midnight blue and lace coming away to bare the long curve of her back, making her arch with all the sinuous glamour of this. He strokes his knuckles in a long caress down her spine, smiling at the way she moans and shivers into his touch, watching her face with a deep possessive pleasure. The lace and fabric cascades all the way down the length of her body, heaping around her heels.

He takes a step back, his mouth curling sly as he holds her hand and looks long and lazily at her nakedness. He in his beautifully cut and fitted Burberry suit, completely clothed, his hair rumpled silver from her hands. 

“Now you,” he says and tugs at her hand. “Put your mouth where I want it. You know.”

On her knees, she undoes the narrow belt and unzips his trousers. His cock is bent hard and red in the confines of satin and lace. Her mouth waters just looking at it. When she takes it out of the gold and black fabric, he groans and pets her head. When she sucks it into her greedy mouth, he gathers a fistful of her hair and groans, fucking into her, fucking her mouth til she gags and pulls off, shooting a furious look up at him.

“Sorry,” he says, quite unrepentant.

“Yeah, I bet,” she replies, forgiving him already.

The Burberry suit gets strewn in blue and white across the carpet of the hotel suite. He is a luscious sight of cream and dark red and gold and black, so many lovely textures from the pink of his little nipples to the smooth white of his abdomen to the glisten of his cock, lace and satin and sheer nylon. A sensual beautiful man who lays her back across the bed, and trails his hand along the underside of her calf. 

She knows what he wants, her lips quirking as she lifts her leg and very delicately places the steel tip of her heel on the swollen red curve of his cock. He cradles her ankle with one hand, a blush of arousal moving across his face. And when he looks down at himself, when she slowly scrapes her heel along his blood hard sensitive flesh, his mouth parts on a silent breathless snarl.

“Lick me,” she invites. “Lick me where I want it.” They grin at each other, united in this private language. “You know.”

He sucks her wet, ripples pleasure into her, his silver hair tickling the insides of her thighs, his fingers so gentle and capable. Whispers of love, pressed into her softest skin, kissed up the length of her body until he kisses her mouth, tasting of her most intimate self. 

She twines her arms around his neck, tips him gently back against the bed so she can straddle him and tell him, show him how pretty and perfect he is in his secret lingerie. He lets her mouth roam on him, breathy laughs and long moans as she tastes him all over. Soft blue grey eyes watching her run her tongue along the top edges of the black stockings on his strong pale thighs, watching her bite gently at his hipbones through the pulled down panties.

“Are you going to fuck me with them on?” she asks, as much another invitation as curiosity.

“Yes,” he says without pause and pushes up to take hold of her. “Yeah, I want --”

He wants the visual, she remembers, and the sensation too. So much a hedonist, once and always.

This time he enters her smooth and slow, face to face so they see each other react to that perfect pleasurable slide in. She slides her hands over his ass, finding the edge of slippery material, holding his moving curving muscles as he fucks her with that perfect steady rhythm. His legs in the slippery black nylon rub smooth against hers, a thrill of sensation over and over again. Thick cock in soft cunt, rubbing in all the sweet ways that make them moan and moan together, quickening as the blood moves hotter and hotter. He curves his arm on the pillow around her head, braces himself, hunches his shoulders, and fucks her faster, pushing them both, harder and harder, deeper and deeper, until she’s whimpering loud and digging her nails into his round flesh, fucking him back in an exquisite frenzy until she’s convulsing and coming in seizes of fluid and cries, until he’s shuddering and coming in a long deep groan.

“Love you,” he murmurs after a little while, cuddling her beside him. The room is all soft and dark now, they’re naked and warm under the covers.

Halfway dreamy, she replies without thinking, “I know.”

His chest vibrates with laughter. “Less Star Wars, more sincerity, please.”

She cracks an eye open. “I was sincere! That was sincere! How dare you.”

“Uh huh.” He kisses her with his soft silly mouth, and wriggles himself more comfortably against her, face pressed against her neck.

She thinks for a while, feeling him drift ever closer to sleep. “Okay, how about this?” She pokes at him. “Listen.”

He growls under his breath, and turns the muddled shape of his face up to her. “Yes. Listening.”

“Remember this bit? Nature patterned you,” she recites, trying to remember the exact words, “and when she was done, you were all the sweet things rolled up in one.”

His eyes glimmer excitement in the dark, catching what little light there is. When she's done, he complains loudly, "Okay, but you're supposed to fucken sing it!"

Laughing, she kisses him silent.

His Burberry suit is still scattered on the carpet out there, her dress a spill of lace and fabric. And as his breathing settles against her, she thinks about how they both wore black and blue tonight, like soft bruises of love. This gentle tangle of secrets and kink, of public and private, this is how they live and how they love.

**Author's Note:**

> Right, so yes. How did this happen? Well, I sent vell1chor [this gifset of HommeMystere lingerie](http://memorypalaceofwillgraham.tumblr.com/post/93637457807/gorgeous-nudges-madnizilla) and her response was: _jesus god, the thought of mendo wearing those under his burberry suit_
> 
> So I had to. Even though I was supposed to be writing another fic.
> 
> In case you’re wondering, the “Dignity, always dignity” line and his response are quotes from **Singin’ In The Rain**. As too, the song at the end which is _You Were Meant For Me_. Because it's an absolutely wonderful song, I love it so much. *sobs*
> 
> The Blackeyed Susans are this dreamy croony band from Perth (Straya, mate), and feature the dreamy swoony croony vocals of Rob Snarski.


End file.
